In the end
by Jess.LetLoveWin
Summary: Connor and Murphy go down together. One shot tragedy.


"It'll all be okay, Murph...it'll all be okay."

Connor dragged Murphy's lifeless body up the final set of stairs. Sweat was sliding down his head, leaving streaks on his dirty face. They shouldn't have even tried. They shouldn't have gotten into the mess that they'd taken up as an occupation a year ago. At first they could handle it, cruising the streets at night with their father at their side. But then he passed away only months before.

It broke Murphy's heart. That was clear to Connor. Of course, he too, was pained by the loss. After finding their da, they were to lose him so soon. The world was more cruel than either had thought. Connor had, somehow, grown closer to his brother. More than he thought possible. Something in the back of Connor's mind told him he could lose him so soon. Over their father's death bed, Murphy had taken Connor in his arms, bringing him physically closer, and buried his face in his brother's neck. Connor shook, gently, as he heard Murphy's sobbing, pleading with God in Latin as if their father could possibly come back now.

Connor had seen many a tragedy in his life. He'd seen deaths, caused them, and held bleeding innocence in his hands. He'd stepped over bodies, seen the innocent fall and experienced things he could not handle alone. Murphy had been there, at his side, always, but never in Connor's life had he experienced such a tragedy. Such a heart break, that it caused him to shed real tears. Real tears that weren't caused by physical pain since his child hood. But that night, when he'd held his father's cold hand, a sleeping Murphy at his side, he'd let them fall. Who could see them in the darkness that was slowly consuming him and his brother?

Connor managed to get the door unlocked before he kicked it open with such force, the walls inside shook. The apartment was one roomed, serving as a bathroom, a kitchen, a bedroom and a living room in one. They'd made a permanent home for themselves after the death of their father and Connor had seen to it that it resembled their old apartment, before the Russians, before the incident that had named them the Saints of South Boston.

Murphy had liked it quite a bit, which was what Connor was aiming for. Just a smidge of normality and a pinch of familiar surroundings.

Connor laid Murphy's body - wet with blood and perspiration - on his seperate mattress which served as his bed. Murphy's head rolled to the side, allowing Connor to check his pulse. Slow, barely detectable, but there. Slowly and carefully, he stripped his brother, easy not to touch his wounds. The last thing Murphy needed was to get anything infected by Connor's dirty hands.

Speaking of which, he made sure to scrub them until they practically sparkled before he filled a bowl with water and taken out the best of the linen to clean his brother with. Knealing beside Murphy's naked form, Connor removed his own shirt and gently began to wash his brother. It took nearly ten minutes to clean up half of his body, then another fifteen to make the rest clean. Along Murphy's right side, above his rib cage, was a deep and long slash. Praise the Lord that it had stopped bleeding.

Connor dressed Murphy's wound, carefully. Murphy, who hadn't moved an inch since he'd been laid down, turned his head, but didn't wake up. Silently, Connor grabbed his rosary that hung around his neck, and gripped it as he thanked God Murphy was still alive. Slowly, Connor cleaned the rest of the blood from himself and laid beside his brother, sharing the mattress. His arm draped over Murphy, Connor drifted into an uneasy sleep.

-----

It was three in the morning when they two were awoken by their apartment door slamming open. Neither knew what was going on as several men rushed in from outside, carrying weapons, their faces concealed beneath hoods. Murphy, who'd never been truly afraid (to Connor) in his life, had whimpered and trembled against his brother. For once, the two saints were as helpless as the people they'd sworn themselves to protect.

Silently, a single man stepped forward, a gun in either hand. His face wasn't hidden under anything. A smirk - knowing - was across his face as he rose the two guns and pointed them at either brother's head.

On instinct, the two reached at the same time and took each other's hand, lacing their fingers together. Both of their palms were sweaty, and they held on so tightly to the other's hand, both of their knuckles turned white. The man, who hadn't noticed, shouted something unaudible over the ringing in both Murphy and Connor's ears. While he was turned away, Connor pulled Murphy's hand up and kissed it. Their eyes met and Murphy's did the same with Connor. Silently, the two lowered their arms and faced the man before them.

Two shots rang through the apartment that night. Two heads fell limp, facing each other, and several men slipped out of the building and into the night.

Everything was still. There was only silence. No more heavy breathing, or snoring from either brother.

A single bullet hole was present on either brother's forehead. Two hands, clutching each other rested between the two lifeless forms, and two rosaries are placed between those hands, pressed together.

That night, both brother had kept the promise they made when their eyes first rested on each other, not too long after birth. The promise that neither knew they had silently made.

That night, the Saints of South Boston went down. And that night, they'd gone down together.


End file.
